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ALDRICH'S  POEMS. 


BY   THE    SAME   AUTHOR. 

o 

THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE. 
(An  Eastern  Tale,  in  verse.) 


THE 


BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS    BAILEY     ALDRICH 


NEW  YORK 

RUDD   &   CARLETON   310  BROADWAY 
MDCCCLIX 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


K.   CRAIGHEAD, 
Printer,  Stcreotyper,  and  Kleclrotyper, 

Carton  Unilfting, 
81,  S3,  and  85  Cmtrt  Sirea. 


TO 

V.  E.  V. 


OF 


NEW    ENGLAND 


CONTENTS. 


I. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    BABIE    BELL. 

II. 

CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 

THE    FADED    VIOLET. 

MY    NORTH    AND    SOUTH.    . 

THE    GHOST'S    LADY.       . 

WE    KNEW    IT   WOULD    RAIN. 

AFTER    THE    RAIN. 

A    BALLAD.         .  .  . 

LAST    NIGHT    AND    TO-NIGHT. 

TIGER-LILIES. 

THE    BETROTHAL.  .  . 

MADAM,    AS    YOU    PASS    US   BY.      , 

THE    MERRY    BELLS    SHALL    RING. 

MAY.       . 

LITTLE    MAUD.      .  . 

PERDITA.  .  , 

NAMELESS    PAIN.  .  . 

THE    MOORLAND.         .  .  . 

AT    THE    DEAD-HOUSE. 

SONG.      . 

PALABRAS    CARISOSAS. 


FA6E. 
II 


'9 

2O 
21 

22 
24 

25 
26 
27 
28 
30 
3' 

33 
34 
35 
36 

37 

38 
40 

41 
4* 


Contents. 


PAOR 

I    SAT    BESIDE    YOU    WHILE    YOU    SLEPT. 

43 

DEAD.            ....... 

44 

IN    THE    WOODS.          ...... 

45 

A.7 

T/ 

4.8 

BARBARA.                 ...... 

T° 

49 

IT   WAS    A    KNIGHT    OF    ARAGON.              .             .             . 

5' 

WHEN    THE    SULTAN    GOES    TO    ISPAHAN.    .             . 

53 

L'ENVOI.         ....... 

56 

III. 

INFELICISSIMUS.    ...... 

59 

62 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT'S  FEAST  

64 

A    PASTORAL    HYMN    TO    THE    FAIRIES.               . 

65 

THE    UNFORGIVEN.            ..... 

68 

7O 

INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP.             .... 

r** 

72 

A    GREAT    MAN'S    DEATH.     ..... 

75 

THE    BLUE-BELLS    OF    NEW    ENGLAND.           .             . 

76 

A    LEGEND    OF    ELSINORE.    ..... 

78 

PASSING    ST.    HELENA.    ..... 

84 

IV. 

THE    SET    OF   TURQUOISE.    ..... 

87 

SONNETS. 

I.    GHOSTS.    ...... 

113 

II.    TO    .             .            .            .            . 

114 

III.    MIRACLES.              ..... 

"5 

iv.  HASSAN'S  MUSIC.    ..... 

116 

V.    FAIRY    PUNISHMENT.    .... 

117 

I. 

Sallab  of  Sabie  Bell. 


BABIE  BELL. 

THE    POEM    OF  A  LITTLE  LIFE  THAT  WAS  BUT  THREE  APRILS 
LONG. 


I. 

AVE  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  Heaven  were  left  ajar  : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  purple  depths  of  even — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white- winged  Angels  go, 
Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  Heaven  ! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet. 
So  light  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels ! 
II 


12  Babie  Bell. 

They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 

And  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet  ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 


II. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May  . 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves  ; 

Like  sun-light  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went,  the  live-long  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine  ! 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 
O,  earth  was  full  of  singing  birds, 
And  happy  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

III. 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

What  woman  nature  filled  her  eyes, 
"What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 


Babie  Bell. 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 
So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise  ! 

And  we  loved  Babie  more  and  more  : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 
Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn ! 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise) — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  Sweet  Christ ! — our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 


IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  in  June 

Were  white  and  rosy  in  their  bloom — 
Filling  the  crystal  veins  of  air 
With  gentle  pulses  of  perfume — 
Were  rich  in  Autumn's  mellow  prime : 


H  Babie  Bell. 

The  plums  were  globes  of  honeyed  wine, 
The  hived  sweets  of  summer  time  ! 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell : 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell ! 
The  grapes  were  purpling  in  the  grange, 
And  time  brought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  tiny  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face  ! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .... 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame ! 

V. 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
Which  held  the  portals  of  her  speech  ; 

And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 

She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 

We  never  held  her  being's  key : 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity ! 


Babie  Bell. 


VI. 

It  came  upon  us  by  degrees : 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 
We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

'  O,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 
And  per  fed  grow  through  grief.' 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  little  heart  was  cased  in  ours : 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 

VII. 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands  : 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands, 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair ! 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair  ; 


i6 


Babie  Bell. 


We  laid  some  buds  upon  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow- 
Death's  bride  arrayed  in  flowers ! 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours ! 


II. 


0ruallou)~JTltgl)t0. 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


OU  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 

Our  many-colored  songs  are  wrought  ? 

Upon  the  cunning  loom  of  thought, 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 


The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 

Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  weaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves, 

With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold  : 
When  woven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 

Nor  time,  can  make  its  colors  fade. 


20  Swallow-Flights. 


THE  FADED  VIOLET. 

WHAT  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leaves ! 
What  tender  thought,  what  speechless  pain  ! 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain  ! 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Though  scent  and  azure  tint  are  fled — 

0  dry,  mute  lips !  ye  are  the  type 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead  : 

Of  something  wilted  like  thy  leaves  ; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  dim ; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands 
That  found  thee  by  a  river's  brim — 

That  found  thee  when  thy  sunny  mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  drinking  wine — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 

1  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine ! 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am  dead, 
When  hate  is  dead,  for  me,  and  wrong, 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art, 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


Swallow-Flights.  21 


MY  NORTH  AND  SOUTH. 

I  AM  very,  very  fond 
Of  a  blonde, 

Mistress  Maud,  and  so  come  here ; 
And  yet,  and  yet,  and  yet 
I  like  a  gay  brunette, 
Therese,  dear  ! 

O  what  can  a  body  do 
With  you  two  ? — 
Golden  hair  and  rosy  mouth ! 
Black  hair  and  eyes  of  jet! 
You  blonde,  and  you  brunette  ! 
You  North  and  South ! 

Now,  I  love  you,  eyes  and  curls, 
Little  girls ! 
Give  me  each  a  dainty  hand : 

New  England's  hand  shall  lie 
On  my  heart,  and  yours  near  by — 
You  understand? 


22  Swallow-Flights. 


THE  GHOST'S  LADY. 


I. 


UNDER  the  night, 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Look  thou  for  me 
By  the  graveyard  tree, 
Lady  of  mine, 

While  the  nightingales  are  in  tune, 
And  the  quaint  little  snakes  in  the  grass 
Lift  their  silver  heads  to  the  moon. 


2. 


Blushing  with  love, 

In  the  white  moonshine, 
Lie  in  my  arms, 
So,  safe  from  alarms, 
Lady  of  mine, 

While  the  nightingales  are  in  tune, 
And  the  quaint  little  snakes  in  the  grass 
Lift  their  silver  heads  to  the  moon. 


Swallow-Flights.  23 

3- 

Paler  art  thou 

Than  the  white  moonshine: 
Ho  !  thou  art  lost — 
Thou  lovest  a  Ghost, 
Lady  of  mine ! 

While  the  nightingales  are  in  tune, 
And  the  quaint  little  snakes  in  the  grass 
Lift  their  silver  heads  to  the  moon. 


24  Swallow-Flights. 


WE  KNEW  IT  WOULD  RAIN. 

WE  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers ! 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind — and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  25 


AFTER  THE  RAIN. 


THE  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  orange  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 


From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 


And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a.  speck  : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


26  Swallow-Flights. 


A  BALLAD. 


i. 


THE  blackbird  sings  in  the  hazel  dell, 

And  the  squirrel  sits  on  the  tree ; 
And  Maud  she  walks  in  the  merry  green-wood, 

Down  by  the  summer  sea. 


2. 

The  blackbird  lies  when  he  sings  of  love ; 

And  the  squirrel,  a  rogue  is  he ; 
And  Maud  is  an  arrant  flirt  I  trow, 

And  light  as  light  can  be ! 


O,  blackbird,  die  in  the  hazel  dell ! 

And,  squirrel,  starve  on  the  tree  ! 
And,  Maud  —  you  may  walk  in  the  merry  green- 
wood, 

You  are  nothing  more  to  me  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  27 


LAST  NIGHT  AND  TO-NIGHT. 

LAST  night  my  soul  was  lapped 

In  shallow  merriment : 

The  sweet  bee,  Music,  buzzed  about  my  ears ! 
Swan-throated  women,  under  chandeliers, 

Like  odors  came  and  went ! 


To  night  I  hate  them  all : 

It  better  suits  my  mind 
To  walk  where  ocean  sobs  on  pitiless  crags, 
Bethinking  me  of  foul  sea-hags 

In  noisome  caves  confined. 


28  Swallow-Flights. 


TIGER-LILIES. 

I  LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 

Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 

Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 

Red,  or  white  as  snow  ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow  ! 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender ; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine ; 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 
They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful — 
They  are  Circassian  women, 
The  darlings  of  the  harem 

Adown  our  garden  walks  ! 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 
I  sit  beside  the  window    , 


Swallow-Flights.  29 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 

How  they  burn  and  glow  ! 
O  for  the  burning  lilies, 
The  fragrant  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow  ! 


3°  Swallow-Flights. 


THE  BETROTHAL. 

I  HAVE  placed  a  golden 
Ring  upon  the  hand 

Of  the  sweetest  little 
Lady  in  the  land  ! 

When  the  early  roses 
Scent  the  sunny  air, 

I  shall  gather  white  ones 
To  tremble  in  her  hair ! 

Hasten,  happy  roses, 
Come  to  me  by  May — 

In  your  folded  petals 
Lies  my  wedding  day  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  3! 


MADAM,  AS  YOU  PASS  US  BY. 


MADAM,  as  you  pass  us  by, 

Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wine, 
Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 

Against  this  little  maid  of  mine, 
Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by. 


When  in  youth  my  blood  was  warm, 
Wine  was  royal,  life  complete  ; 

So  I  drained  the  flasks  of  wine, 
So  I  sat  at  woman's  feet, 

When  in  youth  my  blood  was  warm. 


Time  has  taught  me  pleasant  truths : 
Lilies  grow  where  thistles  grew  : 

Ah,  you  loved  me  not.  This  maid 
Loves  me.  There's  an  end  of  you  ! 

Time  has  taught  me  pleasant  truths. 


32  Swallow-Flights. 

I  will  speak  no  bitter  words  : 

Too  much  passion  made  me  blind ; 

You  were  subtle.  Let  it  go  ! 
For  the  sake  of  woman-kind 

I  will  speak  no  bitter  words. 


But,  Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by, 
Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wine, 

Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 
Against  this  little  maid  of  mine, 

Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by. 


Swallow-Flights.  33 


THE  MERRY  BELLS  SHALL  RING. 


THE  merry  bells  shall  ring, 

Marguerite  ; 
The  little  birds  shall  sing, 

Marguerite — 

You  smile,  but  you  shall  wear 
Orange  blossoms  in  your  hair, 

Marguerite! 


Ah  me  !  the  bells  have  rung 

Marguerite  ; 
The  little  birds  have  sung, 

Marguerite — 
But  cypress  leaf  and  rue 
Make  a  sorry  wreath  for  you, 

Marguerite  ! 


34  Swallow-Flights. 


MAY. 

BY    A    POET    IN    CLOVER. 

HEBE'S  here,  May  is  here  ! 

The  air  is  fresh  and  sunny  ; 
And  the  fairy  bees  are  busy 

Making  golden  honey  ! 

See  the  knots  of  butter-cups, 
And  the  double  pansies — 

Thick  as  these,  within  my  brain, 
Grow  the  quaintest  fancies  ! 

Let  me  write  my  songs  to-day, 
Rhymes  with  dulcet  closes — 

Tiny  epics  one  might  hide 
In  the  hearts  of  roses  ! 

What's  the  use  of  halcyon  May, 
Of  air  so  fresh  and  sunny, 

If  such  a  busy  bee  as  I 
Can't  make  golden  honey  ? 


Swallow-Flights.  35 


LITTLE  MAUD. 

O  WHERE  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all  ? 
O  where  is  the  voice  on  the  stairway, 

O  where  is  the  voice  in  the  hall  ? 
The  little  short  steps  in  the  entry, 

The  silvery  laugh  in  the  hall  ? 
O  where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all, 
Little  Maud  f 

The  peaches  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

The  apricots  ready  to  fall ; 
And  the  grapes  are  dripping  their  honey 

All  over  the  garden-wall — 
But  where  are  the  lips,  full  and  melting, 

That  looked  up  so  pouting  and  red, 
When  we  dangled  the  sun-purpled  bunches 

Of  Isabells  over  her  head  ? 
O  rosebud  of  women  !  where  are  you  ? 

(She  never  replies  to  our  call  ! ) 
O  where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all, 
Little  Maud? 


36  Swallow-Flights. 


PERDITA. 


i. 

POET,  shape  a  song  for  me 
Of  troubled  love,  of  jealousy, 

Of  sick  conceit ; 

But  make  its  rhymes  as  sad  and  sweet 
As  parting  kisses  be  ! 


2. 

Sing  me  merry,  when  I'm  gay  ; 
But  touch  a  mournful  string  to-day ; 

The  birds  have  flown, 
Save  one,  the  Wind,  that  maketh  moan- 
Perdita's  gone  away  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  37 


NAMELESS  PAIN. 

IN  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 

Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose  ! 
O  for  the  golden,  golden  wind, 
Breaking  the  buds  as  it  goes, 
Breaking  the  buds, 
And  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose  ! 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn, 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 

Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day, 

And  scatter  its  nameless  pain. 


38  Swallow-Flights. 


.     THE  MOORLAND. 

THE  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste ; 

The  night  is  dark  with  drizzling  rain ; 
In  yonder  yawning  cave  of  cloud 

The  snaky  lightning  writhes  with  pain ! 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  Utterly. 


O  sobbing  rain,  outside  my  door! 

O  wailing  phantoms,  make  your  moan  ! 
Go  through  the  night  in  blind  despair — 

Your  shadowy  lips  have  touched  my  own ! 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  bitterly. 


No  more  the  robin  breaks  its  heart 
Of  music  in  the  pathless  woods ! 

The  ravens  croak  for  such  as  I, 

The  plovers  screech  above  their  broods. 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  Utterly. 


Swallow-Flights.  39 

All  mournful  things  are  friends  of  mine, 
(That  weary  sound  of  falling  leaves !) 

Ah,  there  is  not  a  kindred  soul 

For  me  on  earth,  but  moans  and  grieves ! 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  Utterly. 


I  cannot  sleep  this  lonesome  night; 

The  ghostly  rain  goes  by  in  haste, 
And,  further  than  the  eye  can  reach, 

The  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste ! 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  Utterly. 


4°  Swallow-Flights. 


AT  THE  DEAD-HOUSE. 

"  Drown'd !  drown'd ! " — HAMLET. 

HERE  is  where  they  bring  the  dead 
When  they  rise  from  the  river's  bed, 
Sinful  women  who  have  thrown 
Away  the  life  they  would  not  own — 
Life  despised  and  trampled  down  ! 

Sad  enough.     Now,  you  who  write 

Plays  that  give  the  world  delight, 

Tell  me  if  in  this  there  be 

Naught  for  your  new  tragedy  ? 

Ha !  you  start,  you  turn  from  me 

A  face  brimful  of  misery  ! 

Do  you  know  that  woman  there, 

That  icy  image  of  Despair  ? 

Have  you  heard  her  softly  speak  ? 

Have  you  kissed  her,  lips  and  cheek  ? 

Faith !  you  do  not  kiss  her  now  ! 

Poor  young  mouth,  and  pale  young  brow, 

Drenched  hair,  and  glassy  eye — 

Go,  put  that  in  your  tragedy  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  41 


SONG. 


i. 


MAIDEN  Maud  and  Marian 
Have  not  passed  me  by — 

Arched  foot  and  red-ripe  mouth, 
And  bronze-brown  eye ! 


2. 

When  my  hair  is  gray, 
Then  I  shall  be  wise ; 

Then  I  shall  not  care 
For  bronze-brown  eyes. 


Then  let  maiden  Maud 
And  Marian  pass  me  by  ; 

So  they  do  not  scorn  me  now 
What  care  I  ? 


42  Swallow-Flights. 


PALABRAS  CARINOSAS. 

GOOD-NIGHT  !  I  have  to  say  good  night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 
Good-night  unto  that  snowy  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ! 
Good-night  to  fond,  delicious  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfeft  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands !   ah,  then, 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  43 


I  SAT  BESIDE  YOU  WHILE  YOU  SLEPT. 

I  SAT  beside  you  while  you  slept, 

And  Christ !  but  it  was  woe 
To  see  the  long  dark  lashes  rest 

Upon  your  cheeks  of  snow, 
To  see  you  lie  so  happily, 

And  to  think  you  did  not  know 
What  a  weary,  weary  world  is  this, 

While  you  were  sleeping  so  ! 

You  are  dearer  than  my  soul,  love, 

But  in  that  hour  of  pain, 
I  wished  that  you  might  never  lift 

Those  eyes  to  mine  again, 
Might  never  weep,  but  lie  in  sleep 

While  the  long  seasons  roll — 
I  wished  this,  I  who  love  you,  love, 

Better  than  my  soul ! 
And  then — I  cannot  tell  what  then, 

But  that  I  might  not  weep 
I  caught  you  in  my  arms,  love, 

And  kissed  you  from  your  sleep. 


44  Swallow-Flights. 


DEAD. 

I  HEARD  a  sorrowful  woman  say, 
"  Come  in  and  look  at  our  child  ! " 

I  saw  an  Angel  at  shut  of  day, 
And  it  never  spoke — but  smiled  ! 
I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 

I  dream  of  it  when  I  rest — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands, 

And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast ! 


Swallow-Flights.  45 


IN  THE  WOODS. 

THE  summer  birds  are  in  the  summer  sky : 
I  hear  the  music  of  the  woods  again, 
The  wild  wind-symphonies  that  moan  and  die 
On  hemlock  harps  with  such  a  sad  refrain. 

I  long  for  him  who  knew  so  well  these  tones ; 
He  loved  this  greening  world  of  scented  vines, 
This  slumberous  air  that  stirs  the  chestnut  cones, 
And  wafts  an  odor  from  the  gummy  pines. 

Here  do  the  slim  imperial  tulips  blow, 
And  those  ground-flowers  that  seem  like  clots  of  blood 
On  the  green  grass :  and  here  do  lilies  grow — 
The  pale-faced  Dryads  of  the  summer  wood  ! 

All  pleasant  noises,  all  delicious  smells, 
All  things  whereof  our  poets'  songs  are  born — 
Alas !  that  painful  Autumn  through  these  dells 
Should  moaning  come,  and  make  the  place  forlorn. 


46  Swallow-Flights. 

Autumn  will  come  ;  the  fretful  winds  will  blow  ; 
The  rain  will  weep  for  summer  in  the  grave ; 
Then  Winter — building  palaces  of  snow 
With  crystal  vestibule  and  architrave. 

Shadow  of  sorrow,  brood  upon  the  place  ! 
Here  did  I  part  with  one  who  nevermore 
Shall  hunt  for  Spring's  first  violet,  nor  chase 
The  hungry  fox  when  woods  and  fields  are  hoar. 


Swallow-Flights.  47 


AUTUMN  ALIA. 

WHEN  marigolds  heaped  lie  like  ignots  of  gold, 

And  the  snowy  syringas  their  petals  unfold, 

I  drink  the  warm  sunshine,  I  dream  in  the  grass, 

I  shout  to  the  swallows  that  over  me  pass ; 

And  thoughts  of  dull  Winter  go  out  of  my  mind, 

For  I  lie  in  the  lap  of  the  Summer  Wind, 

Singing  so  cliecrily, 

Living  so  merrily. 


But  when  I  see  stretched  through  the  desolate  night 
The  menacing  hand  of  the  weird  Northern  Light ; 
When  the  leaves  have  turned  sere,  and  the  tulips  are 

dead, 

And  the  beautiful  sumacs  arc  burning  with  red ; 
Then  a  Vision  of  Death  comes  over  my  mind, 
And  I  shrink  from  the  touch  of  the  Autumn  Wind, 
Sighing  so  wearily, 
Living  so  drearily. 


48  Swallow-Flights. 


SONG. 


IT  was  with  doubt  and  trembling 
I  whispered  in  her  ear  : 

O  take  her  answer,  bonny  bird, 
That  all  the  world  may  hear  ! 


2. 


Sing  it,  sing  it,  Silver-throat, 
Upon  the  way-side  tree, 

How  fair  she  is,  how  true  she  is, 
And  how  she  loveth  me  ! 


Sing  it,  sing  it,  Silver-throat, 
And  all  the  summer  long 

The  other  birds  shall  envy  you 
For  knowing  such  a  song  ! 


Swallow-Flights.  49 


BARBARA. 


BARBARA  hath  a  falcon's  eye, 

And  a  soft  white  hand  hath  Barbara  ; 
Beware — for  to  make  you  wish  to  die, 
To  make  you  as  pale  as  the  moon  or  I, 

Is  a  pet  trick  with  Barbara  ! 


Merrily  bloweth  the  summer  wind, 

But  cold  and  cruel  is  Barbara  ! 
And  I,  a  Duke,  stand  here  like  a  hind, 
Too  happy,  i'  faith,  if  I  am  struck  blind 
By  the  quick  look  of  Barbara  ! 


Ay,  Sweetmou',  you  are  haughty  now : 

Time  was,  time  was,  my  Barbara, 
When  I  covered  your  lips  and  brow 
And  bosom  with  kisses — faith,  'tis  snow 
That  was  all  fire  then,  Barbara ! 


5°  Swallow-Flights. 

For  whom  shall  you  hold  Agatha's  ring  ? 

Whom  will  you  love  next,  Barbara  ? 
Choose  from  the  Court — your  page  or  the  King  ? 
Or  one  of  those  sleek-limbed  fellows  who  bring 

Rose-colored  notes  '  For  Barbara  ? ' 


Love  the  King,  by  all  that  is  good  ! 

Make  eyes  at  him,  sing  to  him,  Barbara  ! 
I  think  you  might  please  his  royal  mood 
For  a  month,  and  then — what  then  if  he  should 

Fling  you  aside,  Queen  Barbara  ? 


You  might  die  out  there  on  the  moor, 

(Where  Rouel  died  for  you,  Barbara  !) 
For  the  world,  you  know,  sets  little  store 
On  beauty,  and  charity  closes  the  door 
On  fallen  divinity,  Barbara  ! 


But  if  his  Majesty  grew  so  cold — 

In  the  dead  of  night,  my  Barbara, 
I'd  go  to  his  chamber,  Hate  is  bold, 
And  strangle  him  there  in  his  purple  and  gold, 
And  lay  him  beside  you,  Barbara ! 


Swallow-Flights. 

IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OF  ARAGON. 
[SPAN  i.s  H.] 


•  Fuerie  qual  aee.ro  mire  armas, 
Yqual  cera  entre  las  damns.'1'' 


I. 


IT  was  a  Knight  of  Aragon,  and  he  was  brave  to  see, 
His  helmet  and  his  hauberk,  and  the  greaves  upon  his 

knee : 

His  escuderos  rode  in  front,  his  cavaliers  behind, 
With  stained  plumes  and  gonfalons,  and  music   in  the 

wind. 


It  was  the  maid  Prudencia,  the  rose-bud  of  Madrid, 

Who  watched  him  from  her  balcony,  among  the  jas- 
mines hid. 

'  O,  Virgin  Mother  ! '  quoth  the  Knight,  '  is  that  the 
day-break  there  ?' — 

It  was  the  saintly  light  that  shone  above  the  maiden's 
hair! 


52  Swallow-Flights. 


Then  he  who  crossed  the  Pyrenees  to  fight  the  dogs  of 

France, 
Grew  pale  with  love  for  her  whose  look  had  pierced 

him  like  a  lance ; 
And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  :  beat  softly,  happy 

stars ! — 
And,  mind  you,  gallant  cavaliers,  how  Venus  conquers 

Mars. 


Swallow-Flights.  53 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN. 


[ARABIC.] 


WHEN  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan, 
Even  before  he  gets  so  far 
As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are, 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  Pet  of  the  Harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice, 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Othmanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots, 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes  : 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 
And  all  that  the  daintiest  palate  could  wish, 


54  Swallow-Flights. 

Pass  in  and  out  of  the  golden  doors  ! 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  an  hundred  colors  into  the  air ! 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 
Till  they  seem  to  pout  like  that  rarest  rose 
Which  only  for  Sultans  buds  and  blows  ! 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy-land  ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptious  swoons 
Of  music  rise  and  fall  the  moons 
Of  their  full  brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes : 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood, 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 
Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  divan, 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her  ! 
That's  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan  / 


Swallow-Flights.  55 

Now,  when  I  see  an  extra  light, 
Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  window  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan! 
I  rather  think  my  neighbor's  wife 
Is  leading  this  Orient  sort  of  life ! 


5  6  Swallow-Flights. 


L'ENVOI. 


MEN  turn  to  angels  when  dead  . 
A  thought  grows  into  a  Song  : 
Every  thing  ripens  with  time, 
Or  I  and  my  rhyme  are  wrong. 


The  May-moon  blossomed,  and  grew, 
And  withered,  the  flower  full-blown  ; 
But  out  of  the  ruined  moon 
The  beautiful  June  has  grown  ! 

O  ye  Poets  that  sit  i'  the  sun, 
Your  brows  with  the  laurel  moist, 
When  shall  I  sit  and  sing  with  you, 
Sweet- thoughted  and  silver- voiced  ? 


III. 


Jpoems 


INFELICISSIMUS. 


I. 


WALKED  with  him  one  melancholy  night 

Down  by  the  sea,  upon  the  moon-lit  strands, 

While  in  the  dreary  heaven  the  Northern  Light 

Beckoned  with  flaming  hands — 


II. 

Beckoned  and  vanished,  like  a  woeful  ghost 

That  fain  would  lure  us  to  some  dismal  wood, 
And  tell  us  tales  of  ships  that  have  been  lost, 
Of  violence  and  blood. 


III. 


And  where  yon  dzedal  rocks  o'erhang  the  froth, 

We  sat  together,  Lycidas  and  I, 
Watching  the  great  star-bear  that  in  the  North 
Guarded  the  midnight  sky. 


o  Poems  and  Ballads. 

IV. 

And  while  the  moonlight  wrought  its  miracles, 
Drenching  the  world  with  silent  silver  rain, 
He  spoke  of  life  and  its  tumultuous  ills : 
He  told  me  of  his  pain. 

V. 

He  said  his  life  was  like  the  troubled  sea 

With  autumn  brooding  over  it :  and  then 
Spoke  of  his  hopes,  of  what  he  yearned  to  be, 
And  what  he  might  have  been. 

VI. 

*  I  hope,'  said  Lycidas,  '  for  peace  at  last, 
I  only  ask  for  peace  !     My  god  is  Ease  ! 
Day  after  day  some  rude  Iconoclast 
Breaks  all  my  images  ! 

VII. 

'  There  is  a  better  life  than  I  have  known — 

A  surer,  purer,  sweeter  life  than  this : 
There  is  another,  a  celestial  zone, 

Where  I  shall  know  of  bliss.' 


Poems  and  Ballads.  61 


VIII. 


So,  close  his  eyes,  and  cross  his  helpless  hands, 

And  lay  the  flowers  he  loved  upon  his  breast ; 
For  time  and  death  have  stayed  the  golden  sands 
That  ran  with  such  unrest ! 


IX. 


You  weep  :  I  smile  :  I  know  that  he  is  dead, 
So  is  his  passion,  and  'tis  better  so  ! 

Take  him,  O  Earth,  and  round  his  lovely  head 
Let  countless  roses  blow  ! 


62  Poems  and  Ballads. 


A  BALLAD  OF  NANTUCKET. 

'  WHERE  go  you,  pretty  Maggie, 
Where  go  you  in  the  rain  ? ' 

'I  go  to  ask  the  sailors 

Who  sailed  the  Spanish  main, 

'  If  they  have  seen  my  Willie, 
If  he'll  come  back  to  me — 

It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 
A-sailing  on  the  sea  ! ' 


'  O  Maggie,  pretty  Maggie, 
Turn  back  to  yonder  town  ; 

Your  Willie  's  in  the  ocean, 
A  hundred  fathoms  down  ! 


'  His  hair  is  turned  to  sea-pelt, 
His  eyes  are  changed  to  stones, 

And  twice  two  years  have  knitted 
The  coral  round  his  bones ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  63 

'  The  blossoms  and  the  clover 

Shall  bloom  and  bloom  again, 
But  never  shall  your  lover 

Come  o'er  the  Spanish  main  !' 

But  Maggie  never  heeded, 

For  mournfully  said  she  : 
'  It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 

A-sailing  on  the  sea  ! ' 

She  left  me  in  the  darkness : 

I  heard  the  sea-gulls  screech, 
And  burly  winds  were  growling 

With  breakers  on  the  beach  ! 


The  blythe  bells  of  Nantucket, 
What  touching  things  they  said, 

When  Maggie  lay  a-sleeping 
With  lilies  round  her  head ! 


The  parson  preached  a  sermon, 
And  prayed  and  preached  again- 

But  she  had  gone  to  Willie 
Across  the  Spanish  main  ! 


64  Poems  and  Ballads. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT'S  FEAST. 
[FROM    A    PLAY.] 

TO-NIGHT  we  sup  with  Fiole — 

We  shall  be  delicately  banqueted. 

But  do  you  know  wherewith  he  pays  for  this  ? 

No  ?     Then  I  '11  tell  you ;  it  is  laughable. 

A  week  ago  his  miserly  father  died — 

Despite  his  swollen  money-bags,  he  died — 

But  not  a  para  of  his  hoarded  wealth 

Goes  to  Fiole.     No ;  he  builds  a  church 

And  gives  it  candles  for  a  century, 

Endows  a  hospital,  and  God  knows  what, 

And  only  leaves  that  precious  son  of  his 

An  antique  drinking-cup  all  rough  with  gems 

And  moist  with  the  grapes'  bleeding — a  shrewd  hit 

At  Fiole,  whose  lady-love  is  Wine. 

Neat,  was  it  not  ?  and  worthy  of  the  Count. 

Well,  this  gold  satire,  this  begemmed  lampoon, 

Fiole  pawns  to  Jacobi  the  Jew, 

And  we  're  to  dine  on  it ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  65 


A  PASTORAL  HYMN  TO  THE  FAIRIES. 


O  YE  little  tricksy  gods ! 
Tell  me  where' yc  sleep  o'  nights, 
Where  ye  laugh  and  weep  o'  nights ! 

Is  it  in  the  velvet  pods 

Of  the  drooping  violets — 

In  the  purple  palaces, 

Scooped  and  shaped  like  chalices? 
Or  beneath  the  silver  bend, 
In  among  the  cooling  jets, 
Of  Iris-haunted,  wood  cascades 
That  tumble  down  from  porphyry  heights  ? 

Do  ye  doze  in  rose-leaf  boats 

Where  the  dreamy  streamlet  floats, 

Full  of  fish  and  and  phosphorus  motes, 
Through  the  heart  of  quiet  glades  ? 

II. 

When  we  crush  a  pouting  bloom, 
Ten  to  one  we  kill  a  Fairy ! 
May  be  that  the  light  perfume 
In  our  nostrils,  sweet  and  airy, 


66  Poems  and  Ballads. 

Is  the  spirit  of  the  Fairy 
Floating  upward.     O,  be  wary  ! 
Who  can  tell  what  size  or  make 
The  wilful  little  beings  take  ? 
There's  a  bird ;  now,  who  can  say 
'Tis  a  Robin  or  a  Fay  ? 
Why  may  not  immortal  things 
Go  on  red  and  yellow  wings  ! 
Ah !  if  so  the  Fairies  bide 

Round  us,  with  us,  tell  me  why 
Is  their  silver  speech  denied  ? 

Are  they  deafened  to  my  cry? 

III. 

If  you  ask  me  why  my  song 

Morn,  and  noon,  and  night  complains, 
I  will  tell  you  .  .  .  Long  ago, 

When  the  orchards  and  the  lanes 
Were,  with  fragrant  apple-blooms, 

White  as  in  a  fall  of  snow, 
It  was  then  we  missed  a  Voice — 

It  was  little  Mary's  ! 
For  one  morn  she  wandered  forth, 
In  the  spring-time  of  the  earth, 

And  was  lost  among  the  Fairies  ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  67 

So  I  go  in  pensive  moods 

Through  the  shadows,  by  the  brooks, 
Talking  to  the  solemn  woods, 

Peering  into  mossy  nooks, 

Asking  sadly,  now  and  then, 

After  tiny  maids  and  men  ! 
For  my  thoughts  are  with  the  child, 
All  my  heart  is  gone  with  Mary's — 

O,  sad  day  she  fled  away, 

And  was  lost  among  the  Fairies  ! 


68  Poems  and  Ballads. 


THE  UNFORGIVEN. 

NEAR  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  pifture,  jewels  could  not 

buy  from  me : 

'Tis  a  Siren,  a  fair  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed  drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a  sea ! 

In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  biddeth  fair  to  blossom 

soon, 
But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture ;  and  the 

moon 
Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is  always  June ! 

And  the  heavy-branched  banana  never  yields  its  creamy 

fruit ; 

In  the  citron-trees  are  nightingales  forever  stricken  mute ; 
And  the  Siren  sits,  her  fingers  on  the  pulses  of  her  lute ! 

In  the  hushes  of  the  midnight,  when  my  heliotropes 
grow  strong 

With  the  dampness  I  hear  music — hear  a  quiet,  plain- 
tive song — 

A  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some  immortal 
wrong — 


Poems  and  Ballads.  69 

Like  the  pleading,  oft  repeated,  of  a  Soul  that  pleads  in 

vain, 
Of  a    damned    Soul   repentant,  that   cannot   be    pure 

again ! — 
And  I  lie  awake  and  listen,  with  an  agony  of  brain  ! 

O,    the  mystical,  wild   music!  how  it   melts  into   the 

white 
Of  the  moon  that  turns  the  sombre,  brooding  shadows 

into  light ! 
How  it  sobs  itself  to  slumber  in  the  quiets  of  the  night ! 

And  whence  comes  this  mournful  music  ? — whence,  un- 
less it  chance  to  be 

From  the  Siren,  the  sad  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed  drapery, 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a  sea ! 


70  Poems  and  Ballads. 


A  POET'S  GRAVE. 

IN  this  pleasant  beechen  shade 
Where  the  crocus  blossoms  red, 
Lieth  one  who,  being  dead, 
Is  neither  matron,  man,  nor  maid. 


But  once  he  wore  the  form  of  G  od, 
And  walked  the  earth  with  meaner  things  : 
Death  snapt  him.     See  !  above  him  springs 
The  very  grass  whereon  he  trod  ! 

Let  the  world  swing  to  and  fro, 
The  slant  rain  fall,  the  wind  blow  strong : 
Time  cannot  do  him  any  wrong 
While  he  is  wrapped  and  cradled  so  ! 


Ah,  much  he  suffered  in  his  day  : 
He  knelt  with  Virtue,  kissed  with  Sin — 
Wild  Passion's  child,  and  Sorrow's  twin, 
A  meteor  that  had  lost  its  way  ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  71 

He  walked  with  goblins,  ghouls,  and  things 
Unsightly, — terrors  and  despairs ; 
And  ever  in  the  starry  airs 
A  dismal  raven  flapped  its  wings ! 

He  died.     Six  people  bore  his  pall  j 
And  three  were  sorry,  three  were  not : 
They  buried  him,  and  then  forgot 
His  very  grave — the  lot  of  all ! 

But  strains  of  music  here  and  there, 
Weird  children  whom  nobody  owns, 
Are  blown  across  the  fragrant  zones 
Forever  in  the  midnight  air  ! 


72  Poems  and  Ballads. 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 


I. 

THERE  is  a  sleep  for  all  things.     On  still  nights 

There  is  a  folding  of  a  million  wings — 
The  purple  honey-bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  speckled  butterflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights : 
Sleep  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Sleep  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  sea, 

And  in  the  Earth,  and  in  the  starry  Air !  .  .  . 
If  easeful  sleep  so  universal  be. 

Why  will  it  not  unburden  me  of  care  ? 

It  comes  to  meaner  things  than  my  despair ! 
O  weary,  weary  night,  that  brings  no  rest  to  me ! 


II 


Spirit  of  dreams  and  silvern  memories, 

Delicate  Sleep ! 

One  who  is  sickening  of  his  tiresome  days, 
Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee  keep 


Poems  and  Ballads.  73 

A  captive  in  thy  mystical  domain, 

'Mong  wild  Puck-fancies,  and  the  grotesque  train 

That  do  inhabit  slumber.     Give  his  sight 

Immortal  shapes,  and  bring  to  him  again 

His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 


III. 


Thou  who  dost  hold  the  keys  of  rest, 
Strew  lotus-leaves  and  poppies  on  my  breast — 
Narcotic  buds  from  misty  Godland  brought, 

The  flowers  of  Lethe  !    Then  with  viewless  hand 
Lead  me  into  thy  castle,  in  the  land 
Touched  with  all  colors  like  a  burning  west, 
The  Castle  o'  Vision,  where  the  feet  of  thought 
Wander  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground, 
Fall  like  quick  blossoms,  making  not  a  sound 

In  all  the  corridors 

The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry — from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air, 
Like  thistle-down.     Slumber  is  everywhere. 
The  rook's  asleep,  and,  in  its  dreaming,  caws; 
And  silence  mopes  where  Creoles  have  sung; 
The  Sirens  lie  in  grottos  cool  and  deep  : 
The  lily-wreathed  Naiades  in  streams : 
4 


74  Poems  and  Ballads. 

But  I,  in  chilling  twilight,  stand  and  wait 
On  the  portcullis,  at  thy  castle  gate, 
Yearning  to  see  the  golden  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  the  noiseless  hinges  of  a  sleep ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  75 


A  GREAT  MAN'S  DEATH. 

TO-DAY  a  god  died.     Never  any  more 
Shall  man  look  on  him.     Never  any  more, 
In  hall  or  senate,  shall  his  eloquent  voice 
Give  hope  to  a  sick  nation.     In  his  prime 
Not  all  the  world  could  daunt  him :  yet  a  ghost, 
A  poor  mute  ghost,  a  something  we  call  Death, 
Has  silenced  him  forever !     Let  the  land 
Look  for  his  peer :  he  hath  not  yet  been  found. 


A  crimson  bird,  of  not  so  many  days 
As  there  are  leaves  upon  the  wildling  rose, 
Sings  from  yon  sycamore ;  this  violet 
Sprung  up  an  hour  since  from  the  fibrous  earth  : 
At  noon  the  rain  fell,  and  to-night  the  sun 
Will  sink  with  its  old  splendor  in  the  sea ! — 
And  yet  to-day  a  god  died.  .  .  .  Nature  smiles 
On  our  mortality.     A  robin's  death, 
Or  the  unnoticed  falling  of  a  leaf, 
Is  more  to  her  than  when  a  great  man  dies  ! 


76  Poems  and  Ballads. 


THE  BLUE-BELLS  OF  NEW-ENGLAND. 

THE  roses  are  a  regal  troop, 

And  humble  folks  the  daisies ; 
But,  Blue-bells  of  New-England, 

To  you  I  give  my  praises — 
To  you,  fair  phantoms  in  the  sun, 

Whom  merry  Spring  discovers, 
With  blue-birds  for  your  laureates, 

And  honey-bees  for  lovers  ! 

The  south-wind  breathes,  and  lo !  ye  throng 

This  rugged  land  of  ours — 
Methinks  the  pale  blue  clouds  of  May 

Drop  down,  and  turn  to  flowers ! 
By  cottage  doors  along  the  roads, 

You  show  your  winsome  faces, 
And,  like  the  spectre  lady,  haunt 

The  lonely  woodland  places. 

All  night  your  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 

But  open  at  the  dawning  ; 
Such  simple  faith  as  yours  can  see 

God's  coming  in  the  morning ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  77 

You  lead  me  by  your  holiness, 

To  pleasant  ways  of  duty  : 
You  set  my  thoughts  to  melody, 

You  fill  me  with  your  beauty. 

And  you  are  like  the  eyes  I  love, 

So  modest  and  so  tender, 
Just  touched  with  morning's  glorious  light, 

And  evening's  gentle  splendor. 
Long  may  the  heavens  give  you  rain, 

The  sunshine  its  caresses, 
Long  may  the  little  girl  I  love 

Entwine  you  in  her  tresses. 


78  Poems  and  Ballads. 


A  LEGEND  OF  ELSINORE. 

O  BUT  she  had  not  her  peer ! 

In  the  kingdom  far  or  near, 

There  were  never  such  brown  tresses,  such  a  faultless 
hand  : 

She  had  youth,  and  she  had  gold, 

She  had  jewels  all  untold  ; 

And  many  a  lover  bold 
Wooed  the  Lady  of  the  Land. 

But,  alack !  they  won  not  Maud, 

Neither  belted  knight  nor  lord  : 

"Woo  me  not,  for  Jesus'  sake,  good  gentlemen,"  she 
said. 

If  they  wooed,  then, — with  a  frown 

She  would  strike  their  passion  down. 

O  she  might  have  wed  a  crown 
To  the  ringlets  on  her  head ! 

From  the  dizzy  castle  tips, 

She  would  watch  the  silent  snips, 


Poems  and  Ballads.  79 

Like  sheeted  phantoms,  coming  and  going  evermore, 

While  the  twilight  settled  down 

On  the  sleepy  little  town. 

On  the  gables  peaked  and  brown, 
That  had  sheltered  kings  of  yore. 


Her  blue  eyes  drank  in  the  sight, 
With  a  full  and  still  delight  ; 

For  it  was  as  fair  a  scene  as  aught  in  Arcadie : 
Through  the  yellow-beaded  grain, 
Through  the  hamlet-studded  plain, 
Like  a  trembling  azure  vein, 

Ran  the  river  to  the  sea. 


Spotted  belts  of  cedar-wood 
Partly  clasped  the  widening  flood ; 

Like  a  knot  of  daisies  lay  the  hamlets  on  the  hill ; 
In  the  ancient  town  below, 
Sparks  of  light  would  come  and  go, 
And  faint  voices,  strangely  low, 

From  the  garrulous  old  mill. 


Here  the  land,  in  grassy  swells, 
Gently  rose ;  there,  sank  in  dells 


80  Poems  and  Ballads. 

With  wide  mouths  of  crimson  moss,  and  teeth  of  rock 
and  peat; 

Here,  in  statue-like  repose, 

An  old  wrinkled  mountain  rose, 

With  its  hoary  head  in  snows 
And  musk-roses  at  its  feet ! 


And  so  oft  she  sat  alone, 

In  the  turret  of  gray  stone, 

Looking  o'er  red  miles  of  heath,  dew-dabbled,  to  the 
sea, 

That  there  grew  a  village  cry, 

How  Maud's  cheeks  did  lose  their  dye, 

As  a  ship,  once,  sailing  by, 
Melted  on  the  sapphire  lea. 


'  Lady  Maud,'  they  said,  '  is  vain  ; 

With  a  cold  and  fine  disdain 

She  walks  o'er  mead  and  moorland,  she  wanders  by  the 
sea — 

Sits  within  her  tower  alone, 

Like  CEnonc  carved  in  stone, 

Like  the  queen  of  half  a  zone, 
Ah,  so  icy-proud  is  she  ! ' 


Poems  and  Ballads.  81 

When  Maud  walked  abroad,  her  feet 
Seemed  far  sweeter  than  the  sweet 

Wild  flowers  that  would  follow  her  with  iridescent  eyes ; 
And  the  spangled  eglantine, 
And  the  honeysuckle  vine, 
Running  round  and  round  the  pine 

Grew  tremulous  with  surprise. 


But  she  passed  by  with  a  stare, 

With  a  half  unconscious  air, 
Making  waves  of  amber  froth,  upon  a  sea  of  maize  : 

With  her  large  and  heavenly  eyes 

Looking  through  and  through  the  skies, 

As  if  God's  rich  paradise, 
Were  growing  upon  her  gaze  ! 


Her  lone  walks  led  all  one  way, 

And  all  ended  at  the  gray 

And   the  ragged,  jagged  rocks,  that  tooth  the  dreadful 
beach ; 

There  Queen  Maud  would  stand,  the  Sweet  ! 

With  the  white  surf  at  her  feet, 

While  above  her  wheeled  the  fleet 
Sparrow-hawk  with  startling  screech. 


82  Poems  and  Ballads. 

When  the  stars  had  blossomed  bright, 
And  the  gardens  of  the  night 

Were  full  of  golden  marigolds,  and  violets  astir, 
Lady  Maud  would  sit  alone, 
And  the  sea  with  inner  tone, 
Half  of  melody  and  moan, 

Would  rise  up  and  speak  with  her. 


And  she  ever  loved  the  sea — 

God's  half-uttered  mystery — 
With  its  million  lips  of  shells,  its  never-ceasing  roar : 

And  'twas  well  that,  when  she  died, 

They  made  Maud  a  grave  beside 

The  blue  pulses  of  the  tide, 
'Mong.  the  crags  of  Elsinore. 


One  chill,  red  leaf-falling  morn, 

Many  russet  Autumns  gone, 
A  lone  ship  with  folded  wings,  lay  dozing  off  the  lea : 

It  had  lain  throughout  the  night, 

With  its  wings  of  murky  white 

Folded,  after  weary  flight — 
The  worn  nursling  of  the  sea ! 


Poems  and  Ballads.  83 

Crowds  of  peasants  flocked  the  sands; 

There  were  tears  and  clasping  hands ; 
And  a  sailor  from  the  ship  passed  through  the  kirk-yard 
gate. 

Then  amid  the  grass  that  crept, 

Fading,  over  her  who  slept, 

How  he  hid  his  face  and  wept, 
Crying,  'Late,  alas !  too  late  ! ' 


And  they  called  her  cold.     God  knows  .  . 

Underneath  the  winter  snows, 
The  invisible  hearts  of  flowers  grow  ripe  for  blossoming ! 

And  the  lives  that  look  so  cold, 

If  their  stories  could  be  told, 

Would  seem  cast  in  gentele  mould, 
Would  seem  full  of  love  and  spring. 


A 

yy 


84  Poems  and  Ballads. 


PASSING  ST.  HELENA. 

AND  this  is  St.  Helena  ?     This  the  spot 
Haunted  forever  by  an  Emperor  ! 
Methinks  'twere  meet  that  such  a  royal  ghost 
Should  pace  these  gloomy  battlements  by  night ! 
— The  ship  veered  off,  and  we  passed  out  to  sea : 
And  in  the  first  fair  moonrise  of  the  month, 
I  watched  the  island,  till  it  seemed  a  speck 
No  bigger  than  Astarte.     Year  by  year, 
The  pifture  came  and  went  upon  my  brain, 
Like  frost-work  on  the  windows :  in  my  dreams 
I  saw  those  jagged  turrets  of  dull  rock 
Uplifted  in  the  moonlight :  saw  the  gulls 
Darting  in  sudden  circles ;  heard  the  low 
And  everlasting  anthem  of  the  sea ! 
And  from  the  nether  world  a  voice  would  come, 
Here  did  they  bring  the  Corsican,  and  here 
Died  the  chained  eagle  l>y  these  dismal  cliffs! 


' 


IV. 


Set  of  turquoise. 


DRAMATIS    PERSON,*. 


COUNT  OF  LARA,  A  poor  nobleman. 
BEATRICE,  His  wife. 

FLORIAN, 


Her  dressing-maids. 
JACINTA,  ) 

A  PAGE,  for  the  occasion. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  the  vicinity  of  Mantua. 


THE   SET   OF   TUROUOISE 

A       DRAMATIC      SKETCH. 

SCENE  I. — COUNT  (^LARA'S  -riJlti.     A  balcony  overlooking 
the  garden.     Moonlight.     LARA  and  BEATRICE. 

LARA. 

HE  third  moon  of  our  marriage,  Beatrice  ! 
It  hangs  i'  the  heaven,  ripe  and  ready  to  drcp, 
Like  a  great  golden  orange — 

BEATRICE. 

Excellent ! 

Breathe  not  the  priceless  simile  abroad, 

Or  all  the  poetlings  in  Mantua 

Will  cut  the  rind  of  't !     Like  an  orange  ?  yes, 

But  not  so  red,  Count.     Then  it  hath  no  stem, 

And  ripened  out  of  nothing. 


88 


The  Set  of  Turquoise. 


LARA. 
Critical ! 
Make  thou  a  neater  poesy  for  the  moon. 

BEATRICE. 

Now,  as  't  is  hidden  by  those  drifts  of  cloud, 
With  one  thin  edge  just  glimmering  through  the  dark, 
'Tis  like  some  strange,  rich  jewel  of  the  east, 
I'  the  cleft  side  of  a  mountain. 

LARA. 

Not  unlike ! 

BEATRICE. 

And  that  reminds  me — speaking  of  jewels — love, 
There  is  a  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's, 
Ear-drops  and  bracelets  and  a  necklace — ah ! 
If  they  were  mine  ! 

LARA. 

And  so  they  should  be,  dear, 
Were  I  Aladdin,  and  had  slaves  o*  the  lamp 
To  fetch  me  ingots.     Why,  then,  Beatrice, 
All  Persia's  turquoise-quarries  should  be  yours, 
Although  your  hand  is  heavy  now  with  gems 
That  tear  my  lips  when  I  would  kiss  its  whiteness. 
Oh !  so  you  pout !     Why  make  that  full-blown  rose 
Into  a  bud  again  ? 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  89 


You  love  me  not. 

LARA. 
A  coquette's  song. 

BEATRICE. 

I  sing  it. 

LARA. 
A  poor  song. 

BEATRICE. 

You  love  me  not,  or  love  me  over-much, 
Which  makes  you  jealous  of  the  gems  I  wear  ! 
You  do  not  deck  me  as  becomes  our  state, 
For  fear  my  grandeur  should  besiege  the  eyes 
Of  Monte,  Clari,  Marcus,  and  the  rest — 
A  precious  set !     You're  jealous,  Sir  ! 

LARA. 
Not  I. 

I  love  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Why,  that  is  as  easy  said 

As  any  three  short  words ;  takes  no  more  breath 
To  say,  '  I  hate  you.'  What,  Sir,  have  I  lived 
Three  times  four  weeks  your  wedded  loyal  wife, 


9°  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

And  do  not  know  your  follies  ?     I  will  wager 

(If  I  could  trap  my  darling  into  this !)  [Aside. 

The  sweetest  kisses  I  know  how  to  give 

Against  the  turquoise,  that  within  a  month 

You'll  grow  so  jealous — and  without  a  cause, 

Or  with  a  reason  thin  as  window-glass — 

That  you  will  ache  to  kill  me  ! 

LARA. 

Will  you  so  ? 
And  I — let  us  clasp  hands  and  kiss  on  it. 

BEATRICE. 

Clasp  hands,  Sir  Trustful ;  but  not  kiss — nay,  nay  ! 
I  will  not  pay  my  forfeit  till  I  lose. 

LARA. 
And  I  '11  not  lose  the  forfeit. 

BEATRICE. 

We  shall  see. 

BEATRICE  enters  the  home  singing. 

There  was  an  old  earl  and  he  wed  a  young  wife, 

Heigh  ho,  the  bonny. 
And  he  was  as  jealous  as  Death  is  of  Life, 

Heigh  ho,  the  nonny  ! 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  91 

Kings  saw  her,  and  sighed  ; 

And  wan  lovers  died, 
But  no  one  could  win  the  bright  honey 
That  lay  on  the  lips  of  the  bonny 

Young  bride, 
Until  Cupid,  the  rover,  a-hearting  would  go, 

Then — heigh  ho  !  [Exit, 

LARA. 

She  hath  as  many  fancies  as  the  wind 
Which  now,  like  slumber,  lies  'mong  spicy  isles, 
Then  suddenly  blows  white  furrows  in  the  sea  ! 
Lovely  and  dangerous  is  my  leopardess. 
To-day,  low-lying  at  my  feet ;  to-morrow, 
With  great  eyes  flashing,  threatening  doleful  death — 
With  strokes  like  velvet !     She's  no  common  clay, 
Buc  fire  and  dew  and  marble.     I'll  not  throw 
So  rare  a  wonder  in  the  lap  o'  the  world ! 
Jealous  ?     I  am  not  jealous —  though  they  say 
Some  sorts  of  love  breed  jealousy.     And  yet, 
I  would  I  had  not  wagered.     It  implies 
Doubt.     If  I  doubted?     Pshaw!     I'll  walk  awhile 
And  let  the  cool  air  fan  me.  [Paces  the  balcony. 

'Twas  not  wise. 

It 's  only  Folly  with  its  cap  and  bells 
Can  jest  with  sad  things.     She  seemed  earnest,  too. 


92  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

What  if,  to  pique  me,  she  should  over-step 

The  pale  of  modesty,  and  give  sweet  eyes 

(I  could  not  bear  that,  nay,  not  even  that !) 

To  Marc  or  Claudian  ?     Why,  such  things  have  been 

And  no  sin  dreamed  of.     I  will  watch  her  close. 

There,  now,  I  wrong  her.     She  is  wild  enough, 

Playing  the  empress  in  her  honeymoons : 

But  untamed  falcons  will  not  wear  the  hood 

Nor  sit  on  the  wrist,  at  bidding.     Yet  if  she, 

To  win  the  turquoise  of  me,  if  she  should — 

Oh  !  cursed  jewels !  would  that  they  were  hung 

About  the  glistening  neck  of  some  mermaiden 

A  thousand  fathoms  underneath  the  sea ! 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  93 


SCENE  II. — A  garden :  the  villa  seen  in  the  lack-ground. 
LARA  stretched,  on  the  grass  with,  a  copy  of  Boccaccio's 
'  Decameron '  in  his  hand.  Sunset. 

LARA.        [Closing  the  T)oo7c.~\ 

A  book  for   sunset — if  for  any  time. 

Right  spicy  tongues  and  pleasant  wit  had  they, 

The  merry  Ladies  of  Boccaccio  ! 

What  tales  they  told  of  love-in-idleness, 

(Love  old  as  earth,  and  yet  forever  new  !) 

Of  monks  who  worshipped  Venus — not  in  vain  ; 

Of  unsuspecting  husbands,  and  gay  dames 

Who  held  their  vows  but  lightly — by  my  faith, 

Too  much  of  the  latter !     'T  is  a  sweet,  bad  book. 

I  would  not  have  my  sister  or  my  wife 

Caught  by  its  cunning.     In  its  golden  words 

Sin  is  so  draped  with  beauty,  speaks  so  fair, 

That  naught  seems  wrong  but  virtue  !     Yet,  for  all, 

It  is  a  sprightly  volume,  and  kills  care. 

I  need  such  sweet  physicians.     I  have  grown 

Sick  in  the  mind — at  swords'  points  with  myself. 

I  am  mine  own  worst  enemy  ! 

And  wherefore  ?  wherefore  ?     Beatrice  is  kind, 


94  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

Less  fanciful,  and  loves  me,  I  would  swear, 
Albeit  she  will  not  kiss  me  till  the  month 
Which  ends  our  foolish  wager  shall  have  passed. 
An  hundred  years,  and  not  a  single  kiss 
To  sweeten  time  with  !     What  a  freakish  dame  ! 

A  Page  crosses  the  garden. 

That  page  again  !     'T  is  twice  within  the  week 
That  slender-waisted,  pretty-ankled  knave 
Has  crossed  my  garden  at  this  self-same  hour, 
Trolling  a  canzonetta  with  an  air 
As  if  he  owned  the  villa.     Why  the  fop  ! 
He  might  have  doffed  his  bonnet  as  he  passed. 
I  '11  teach  him  better  if  he  comes  again. 
What  does  he  at  the  villa  ?     Oh  !  perchance 
He  comes  in  the  evening  when  his  master's  out, 
To  lisp  soft  romance  in  the  ready  ear 
Of  Beatrice's  dressing-maid ;  but  then 
She  has  one  lover.     Now  I  think  she 's  two  : 
This  gaudy  popinjay  would  make  the  third, 
And  that 's  too  many  for  an  honest  girl ! 
If  he 's  not  Florian's,  he 's  Jacinta's,  then  ? 
I  '11  ask  the  Countess — no,  I  '11  not  do  that ; 
She  'd  laugh  at  me,  and  vow  by  the  Madonna 
This  varlet  was  some  noble  in  disguise, 
Seeking  her  favor.     Then  I M  crack  his  skull — 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  95 

That  is,  I  would,  were  I  a  jealous  man  : 

But  then  I  'm  not.     So  he  may  come  and  go 

To  Florian — or  the  devil !     I  '11  not  care. 

I  would  not  build  around  my  lemon-trees, 

Though  every  lemon  were  a  sphere  of  gold, 

A  lattice-fence,  for  fear  the  very  birds 

Should  sing,    You  're  jealous,  you  are  jealous,  Sir  ! 


96  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 


SCENE  III. — A  wooded  road  near  the  tilla.  The  garden- 
gate  seen  on  the  left.  LARA  leaning  against  a  tree. 
Eveninj. 

LARA. 

Sorrow  itself  is  not  so  hard  to  bear 

As  the  thought  of  sorrow  coming.     Airy  ghosts, 

That  work  no  harm,  do  terrify  us  more 

Than  men  in  steel  with  bloody  purposes. 

Death  is  not  dreadful ;  't  is  the  dread  of  death — 

We  die  whene'er  we  think  of  it ! 

I'll  not 

Be  cozened  longer.     When  the  page  comes  out 
1 11  stop  him,  question  him,  and  know  the  truth. 
I  cannot  sh  in  the  garden  of  a  night 
But  he  glides  by  me  in  his  jaunty  dress, 
Like  a  fantastic  phantom  ! — never  looks 
To  the  right  nor  left,  but  passes  gayly  on, 
As  if  I  were  a  statue.     Soft,  he  comes, 
I  '11  make  him  speak,  or  kill  him ;  then,  forsooth, 
It  were  unreasonable  to  ask  it.     Soh ! 
I  '11  speak  him  gently  at  the  first,  and  then — 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  97 

The  Page  enters  ly   a  gate  in    the  villa-garden,   and 
walls  carelessly  past  the  Count. 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  who  owns  you  ? 

PAGE. 

No  one  now. 

I  was  the  Signer  Juan's,  but  am  no  more. 

LARA. 
What,  then,  you  stole  from  him  ? 

PAGE. 

Oh  !  no,  Sir,  no. 

He  had  so  many  intrigues  on  his  hands, 
There  was  no  sleep  for  me  nor  night  nor  day. 
Such  carrying  of  love-favors  and  pink  notes  ! 
He 's  gone  abroad  now,  to  break  other  hearts, 
And  so  I  left  him. 

LARA. 
A  frank  knave. 

PAGE. 

To-night 

I  Ve  done  his  latest  bidding — 

LARA. 

As  you  «hould — 
5 


98  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

PAGE. 

A  duty  wed  with  pleasure — 't  was  to  take 
A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn, 
In  yonder  vilk. 

LARA.     [Aside.] 

Why,  the  devil !  that 's  mine ! 

A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn  ? 

[To  the  Page.]       In  yonder  villa  ? 


Ay,  Sir.     You  can  see 

The  portico  among  the  mulberries, 

Just  to  the  left,  there. 

LARA. 

Ay,  I  see,  I  see. 
A  pretty  villa.     And  the  lady's  name  ? 

PAGE. 
Ah  !  that 's  a  secret  which  I  cannot  tell. 

LARA.     [Catching  him  by  the  throat. 
No  ?  but  you  shall,  though,  or  I  '11  strangle  you  ! 
In  my  strong  hands  your  slender  neck  would  snap 
Like  a  brittle  pipe-stem. 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  99 


PAGE 

You  are  choking  me  ! 

Oh  !  loose  your  grasp,  Sir  ! 

LARA. 
Then  the  name  !  the  name  ! 

PAGE. 
Countess  of  Lara. 

LARA. 
Not  her  dressing-maid  ? 

PAGE. 

Nay,  nay,  I  said  the  mistress,  not  the  maid. 

LARA. 

And  then  you  lied.     Oh  !  woful,  woful  Time  ! — 
Tell  me  you  lie,  and  I  will  make  you  rich, 
I  '11  stuff  your  cap  with  ducats  twice  a  year  ! 

PAGE.        [Smiling.] 
Well,  then— I  lie. 

LARA. 

Ay,  now  you  lie,  indeed  ! 

I  see  it  in  the  cunning  of  your  eyes ; 


ioo  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

Night  cannot  hide  the  Satan  leering  there. 
Only  a  little  lingering  fear  of  heaven 
Holds  me  from  dirking  you  between  the  ribs ! 
Wo  !  wo  !  [Hides  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

PAGE.     [Aside.] 
I  would  I  were  well  out  of  this. 

LARA.     [Abstractedly] 
Such  thin  divinity  !     So  foul,  so  fair ! 

PAGE. 
What  would  you  have?     I  will  say  nothing,  then. 

LARA. 

Say  every  thing,  and  end  it !  Here  is  gold. 
You  brought  a  billet  to  the  Countess — well  ? 
What  said  the  billet  ? 

PAGE. 

Take  away  your  hand, 

And,  by  St.  Mary,  I  will  say  it  alL 

There,  now,  I  breathe.     You  will  not  harm  me,  Sir  ? 

Stand  six  yards  off,  or  I  will  not  a  word. 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  101 

It  seems  the  Countess  promised  Signor  Juan 
A  set  of  turquoise — 

LARA.          [Starting.] 
Turquoise  ?     Ha  !  that 's  well. 

PAGE. 

Just  so — wherewith  my  master  was  to  pay 
Some  gaming  debts ;  but  yester-night  the  cards 
Tumbled  a  golden  mountain  at  his  feet; 
And  ere  he  sailed,  this  morning,  Signor  Juan 
Gave  me  a  perfumed,  amber-tinted  note, 
For  Countess  Lara,  which,  with  some  adieux, 
Craved  her  remembrance  morning,  noon,  and  night ; 
Her  prayers  while  gone,  her  smiles  when  he  returned ; 
Then  told  his  sudden  fortune  with  the  cards, 
And  bade  her  keep  the  jewels.     That  is  all. 


All  ?     Is  that  all  ?     'T  has  only  cracked  my  heart ! 

A  heart,  I  know  of  little,  little  worth — 

An  ill-cut  ruby,  scarred  and  scratched  before, 

But  now  quite  broken  !     I  have  no  heart,  then  : 

Men  should  not  have,  when  they  are  wronged  like  this. 

Out  of  my  sight,  thou  demon  of  bad  news ! 


102  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

0  sip  thy  wine  complacently  to-night, 
Lie  with  thy  mistress  in  a  pleasant  sleep, 

For  thou  hast  done  thy  master  (that 's  the  Devil  !) 

This  day  a  goodly  service :  thou  hast  sown 

The  seeds  of  lightning  that  shall  scathe  and  kill !      [Exit. 

PAGE.     [Looking  after  him.] 

1  did  not  think  't  would  work  on  him  like  that. 
How  pale  he  grew  !     Alack  !  I  fear  some  ill 
Will  come  of  this.     I  '11  to  the  Countess  quick, 
And  warn  her  of  his  madness.     Faith,  he  foamed 

I*  the  mouth  like  Guido  whom  they  hung  last  week 

(God  rest  him  !)  in  the  jail  at  Mantua, 

For  killing  poor  Battista.     Crime  for  crime  !  [Exit. 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  103 


SCENE  IV. — BEATRICE'S  chamber.  A  Venetian  screen  on 
the  right.  As  the  scene  opens,  JACINTA  places  lamps  on 
a  standish,  and  retires  to  the  back  of  the  stage.  BEA- 
TRICE sits  on  afauteuil  in  the  attitude  of  listening. 


Hist !  that 's  his  step.     Jacinta,  place  the  lights 
Farther  away  from  me,  and  get  thee  gone.  [Exit  JACINTA. 
And  Florian,  child,  keep  you  behind  the  screen, 
Breathing  no  louder  than  a  lily  does ; 
For  if  you  stir  or  laugh  't  will  ruin  all. 

FLORIAN.    [Behind  the  screen^ 
Laugh !     I  am  faint  with  terror. 

BEATRICE. 

Then  be  still. 

Move  not  for  worlds  until  I  touch  the  bell, 
Then  do  the  thing  I  told  you.     Hush  !  his  step 
Sounds  in  the  corridor,  and  I  'm  asleep  ! 


I04  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

LARA  enters  with  his  dress  in  disorder.     He  approaches 
within  a  few  yards  of  BEATRICE,  pauses,  and  looks  at  her. 

LARA. 

Asleep  ! — and  Guilt  can  slumber  !     Guilt  can  lie 

Down-lidded  and  soft-breathed,  like  Innocence ! 

Hath  dreams  as  sweet  as  childhood's — who  can  tell  ? — 

And  paradisal  prophecies  in  sleep, 

Its  foul  heart  keeping  measure,  as  it  were, 

To  the  silver  music  of  a  mandoline ! 

Were  I  an  artist,  and  did  wish  to  paint 

A  devil  to  perfection,  I  'd  not  limn 

A  horned  monster,  with  a  leprous  skin, 

Red-hot  from  Pandemonium — not  I. 

But  with  my  delicatest  tints,  I  'd  paint 

A  Woman  in  the  splendor  of  her  youth, 

All  garmented  with  loveliness  and  mystery ! 

She  should  be  sleeping  in  a  room  like  this, 

With  Angelos  and  Titians  on  the  walls, 

The  grand  old  masters  staring  grandly  down, 

Draped  round  with  folds  of  damask ;  in  the  alcoves, 

Statues  of  Bacchus  and  Endymion, 

And  Venus's  blind  love-child  :  a  globed  lamp 

Gilding  the  heavy  darkness,  while  the  odors 

Of  myriad  hyacinths  should  seem  to  break 

Upon  her  ivory  bosom  as  she  slept ; 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  i°5 

And  by  her  side,  (as  I  by  Beatrice,) 

Her  injured  lord  should  stand  and  look  at  her!    [Pauses. 

How  fair  she  is !     Her  beauty  glides  between 

Me  and  my  purpose,  like  a  pleading  angel. 

Beauty — alack  !  't  is  that  which  wrecks  us  all ; 

'T  is  that  we  live  for,  die  for,  and  are  damned. 

A  pretty  ankle  and  a  laughing  lip — 

They  cost  us  Eden  when  the  world  was  new, 

They  cheat  us  out  of  heaven  every  day ! 

To-night  they  win  another  Soul  for  you, 

Master  of  Darkness !     .     .     .  [BEATRICE  sigTis. 

Her  dream  's  broke,  like  a  bubble,  in  a  sigh. 
She  '11  waken  soon,  and  that — that  must  not  be ! 
I  could  not  kill  her  if  she  looked  at  me. 
I  loved  her,  loved  her,  by  the  Saints,  I  did — 
I  trust  she  prayed  before  she  fell  asleep ! 

[  Unsheathes  a  dagger. 

BEATRICE.     [Springing  upj\ 

So,  you  are  come — your  dagger  in  your  hand  ? 
Your  lips  compressed  and  blanched,  and  your  hair 
Tumbled  wildly  all  about  your  eyes, 
Like  a  river-god's  ?     Oh  !  love,  you  frighten  me  ! 
And  you  are  trembling.     Tell  me  what  this  means. 
1* 


io6  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

LARA. 

Oh !  nothing,  nothing — I  did  think  to  write 
A  note  to  Juan,  to  Signer  Juan,  my  friend, 
(Your  cousin  and  my  honorable  friend ;) 
But  finding  neither  ink  nor  paper  here, 
Methought  to  scratch  it  with  my  dagger's  point 
Upon  your  bosom,  Madam  !     That  is  all. 

BEATRICE. 

You  Ve  lost  your  senses  ! 

LARA. 

Madam,  no  :  I  Ve  found  'em  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Then  lose  them  quickly,  and  be  what  you  were. 

LARA. 

I  was  a  fool,  a  dupe — a  happy  dupe. 
You  should  have  kept  me  in  my  ignorance  ; 
For  wisdom  makes  us  wretched,  king  and  clown. 
Countess  of  Lara,  you  are  false  to  me  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Now,  by  the  Saints — 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  107 


LARA. 

Now,  by  the  Saints,  you  are ! 

BEATRICE. 

Upon  my  honor — 

LARA. 

On  your  honor  ?  fye  ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth,  for  that 

Is  not  so  light  a  substance. 

BEATRICE. 

Hear  me,  love ! 

LARA. 

Lie  to  that  marble  lo  !     I  am  sick 
To  the  heart  with  lying. 

BEATRICE. 

You  Ve  the  ear-ache,  Sir, 
Got  with  too  much  believing. 


LARA. 


Beatrice, 

I  came  to  kill  you. 


io8  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

BEATRICE. 

Kiss  me,  Count,  you  mean  ! 

LARA.     [Approaching  her.] 
If  killing  you  be  kissing  you,  why  yes. 

BEATRICE. 

Ho !  come  not  near  me  with  such  threatening  looks, 
Or  I  '11  call  Florian  and  Jacinta,  Sir, 
And  rouse  the  villa  :   't  were  a  pretty  play 
To  act  before  our  servants ! 

LARA. 

Call  your  maids ! 

I  '11  kill  them,  too,  and  claim  from  Royalty 
A  golden  medal  and  a  new  escutcheon, 
For  slaying  three  she-dragons — but  you  first ! 

BEATRICE. 

Stand  back  there,  if  you  love  me,  or  have  loved ! 

As  LARA  advances,  BEATRICE  retreats  to  the  table  and  rings 
a  small  hand-bell.  FLORIAN,  in  the  dress  of  a  page, 
enters  from  behind  the  screen,  and  steps  between  them. 

FLORIAN. 
What  would  my  master,  Signer  Juan,  say — 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  109 


LARA.      [Starting 

The  Page  ?  now,  curse  him  !  —  What  ?  no  !  Florian  ? 

Hold  !  't  was  at  twilight,  in  the  villa-garden, 

At  dusk,  too,  on  the  road  to  Mantua  ; 

But  here  the  light  falls  "on  you,  man  or  maid  ! 

Stop  now  ;  my  brain  's  bewildered.     Stand  you  there, 

And  let  me  touch  you  with  incredulous  hands  ! 

Wait  till  I  come,  nor  vanish  like  a  ghost  ! 

If  this  be  Juan's  page,  why,  where  is  Florian  ? 

If  this  be  Florian,  where  's  —  by  all  the  Saints, 

I  have  been  tricked  ! 

FLORIAN.     [Laughing.] 
By  two  Saints,  with  your  leave  ! 

LARA. 

The  happiest  fool  in  Italy,  for  my  age  ! 

And  all  the  damning  tales  you  fed  me  with, 

You  Sprite  of  Twilight,  Imp  of  the  old  Moon  !  — 

FLORIAN.     [Jjowingj] 

Were  arrant  lies  as  ever  woman  told  ; 

And  though  not  mine,  I  claim  the  price  for  them— 

This  cap  stuffed  full  of  ducats  twice  a  year  ! 


no  The  Set  of  Turquoise. 

LARA. 

A  trap !  a  trap  that  only  caught  a  fool ! 
So  thin  a  plot,  I  might  have  seen  through  it. 
I  've  lost  my  reason  ! 

FLORIAN. 
And  your  ducats ! 

BEATRICE. 

And 

A  certain  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's  ! 

{his  arms. 
LARA.      [Catching  BEATRICE  in 

I  care  not,  love,  so  that  I  have  not  lost 
The  love  I  held  so  jealously.     And  you — 
You  do  forgive  me  ?     Say  it  with  your  eyes. 
Right  sweetly  said  !  Now,  mark  me,  Beatrice  : 
If  ever  man  or  woman,  ghoul  or  fairy, 
Breathes  aught  against  your  chastity — although 
The  very  angels  from  the  clouds  drop  down 
To  sign  the  charge  of  perfidy — I  swear, 
Upon  my  honor  — 

BEATRICE. 

Nay,  be  careful  there  ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth  — 


The  Set  of  Turquoise.  m 

LARA. 
I  swear, 
By  heaven  and  all  the  Seraphim  — 

[his  mouth. 

BEATRICE.     [Placing  her  hand  on 
I  pray  you ! 

LARA. 

I  swear — if  ever  I  catch  Florian 

In  pointed  doublet  and  silk  hose  again, 

I'll  — 

BEATRICE. 

What? 

LARA. 

Make  love  to  her,  by  all  that 's  true  ! 

BEATRICE. 

O  wisdom,  wisdom  !  just  two  hours  too  late ! 
You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,  my  love. 

LARA. 

It 's  not  too  late  ! 

BEATRICE.     [To  FLORIAN.] 
To  bed,  you  dangerous  page  ! 
The  Count  shall  pay  the  ducats.     [Exit  FLORIAN.] 


The  Set  of  Turquoise. 


LARA. 

And  to-morrow 

I  '11  clasp  a  manacle  of  blue  and  gold 
On  those  white  wrists.     Now,  Beatrice,  come  here, 
And  let  me  kiss  both  eyes  for  you  ! 


SONNETS. 


I  HOSE  forms  we  fancy  shadows,  those  strange 

lights 

That  flash  on  dank  morasses,  the  quick  wind 
That  smites  us  by  the  roadside — are  the  Night's 

Innumerable  children.     Unconfined 

By  shroud  or  coffin,  disembodied  souls, 

Uneasy  spirits,  steal  into  the  air 

From  festering  graveyards  when  the  curfew  tolls 

At  the  day's  death.     Pestilence  and  despair 

Fly  with  the  sightless  bats  at  set  of  sun. 

And  wheresoever  murders  have  been  done, 

In  stately  palaces  or  lonesome  woods, 

Where'er  a  soul  has  sold  itself  and  lost 

Its  high  inheritance,  there,  hovering,  broods 

Some  sad,  invisible,  accursed  Ghost ! 


"4  Sonnets. 


Now,  if  the  muses  held  me  not  in  scorn, 
I'd  shape  a  poem,  perfect,  fair  and  round 
As  that  thin  band  of  gold  wherewith  I  bound 
Your  slender  finger  our  betrothal  morn  ; 
And  in  the  circuit  of  this  faultless  rhyme 
I'd  place  the  dear  initials  of  your  name — 
Three  koh-i-noors  to  glisten  for  all  time  ! 
So  would  I  lift  my  finger,  and  make  fame 
Couch,  like  that  well  bred  mastiff  at  your  feet 
Lapping  your  hand  with  dangerous  tenderness. 
And  such  a  magic  should  this  song  possess, 
Maidens  would  wear  it,  like  a  musk-pouch,  sweet, 
Upon  their  pinkish  bosoms,  night  and  day, 
To  keep  foul  dreams  and  untrue  loves  away. 


Sonnets.  115 


SICK  of  myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  light 
Of  heaven  away  from  me,  I  love  to  seek 
This  breezy  hill,  and  on  its  highest  peak 
Sit  down  and  watch  the  coming  of  the  night. 
'Tis  ever  a  new  miracle  to  me. 
Men  look  to  God  for  some  mysterious  sign, 
For  marriage  feasts  with  water  turned  to  wine, 
For  Christ  to  walk  upon  the  troubled  sea  ; 
As  if  He  did  not  to  our  sense  unfold 
Meanings  as  miraculous  as  of  old  ! 
Come  watch  with  me  the  shaft  of  fire  that  glows 
In  yonder  heaven :  the  fair,  frail  palaces, 
The  blue  and  crimson  archipelagoes, 
And  great  cloud-continents  of  sunset-seas. 


Sonnets. 


LAND  of  Delight !  you  did  not  hold  us  long : 
Three  moons  we  spent  with  Hassan,  but  those  three, 
Like  flies  in  amber,  lie  in  memory — 
Three  languid  moons,  three  moons  of  dream  and  song. 
When  Hassan  played,  the  musky  winds  of  night 
Trembled,  and  turned  to  music  with  delight ! 
Lo !  it  was  melody's  insanity  : 
Now  'twas  a  honey-throated  nightingale, 
And  now  a  sigh,  a  soul  in  agony, 
A  troubled  dead-march  with  melodious  wail, 
A  fall  of  tears — then  it  came  daintily, 
Like  the  perfum6d  air  that  smote  the  sail 
Of  Cleopatra's  golden  barge,  when  she 
Sailed  down  to  Tarsus  to  Mark  Antony. 


Sonnets. 


"I  AM  not  with  you,  Stoddard,  in  your  sighs 
Because  the  Hamadryads  and  the  Fauns 
Have  left  the  moonlight  lonely  in  the  lawns ! 
Let  science  kill  them  with  her  piercing  eyes, 
Let  death  be  Oberon's  and  Titania's  doom, 
Poor  moonlight  nothings !  let  the  faery  broods 
Quit  our  demesne."  .  .  .  But  that  was  in  my  room 
In  the  hot  city,  not  in  these  still  woods 
Where  I  have  slept  and  dreamed  the  whole  day  long. 
I  did  their  pigmy  majesties  much  wrong, 
And  have  been  punished  (such  was  their  device,) 
By  them  in  mask ;  for  see  !  this  emerald  spear 
Of  grass  hath  pricked  a  ruby  on  my  ear, 
And  that  fierce  humble-bee  hath  stung  me  twice  ! 


A     000106699     2 


I 


